The little irritations. These little tribulations.

Pick up a smile, and just leave it for awhile.
Sweep the shards underneath the carpet.
I can't see or speak clearly right now.
There's no point trying to clean up this mess of myself.
I'll keep my troubles in a box, and hide it in the shadowy corners.
And maybe one day, it'll heal itself.

But for now, smile on all those smiles.
Trying to keep up with each tick of the clock.
I'll fight hard to get back what I've lost.
Face each moment with the courage I've always known.
Stare down each hurdle, each challenge is my own.
And maybe one day it'll come back into my arms.

There comes a moment in each day, when I pause to think of you. Sometimes, it might be when I walk, as I recall a past conversation. The gentleness of your smile, the wrinkled on your hands as they once enclosed my minute fingers. Then, the blunt weight of your passing bludgeons me. I stand still. 

Sometimes, I would stare blankly at the red houses lining the street. Their facades a delicate shade of pink. Or the gingko swaying softly to itself in spring. All of these things bring you back to me, and remind me of my loss even more. 

They bring you flowers, they bring you fruit. But between ourselves, we know that there is nothing greater beneath that inscribed stone than the ruins of a mortal shell. Daily, I offer you corn, walnuts, and other sweets. You'd always liked those better anyway. And daily, I know you will smile back at me, though I am beyond your reach, and you mine. 

And I know, though you do not read my tongue, these sentiments and feelings will be universal, and the pictures I describe of my memories, speak endlessly to you. 

I do not wish you rest, though it may be filial to do so. I wish you gentle happiness, something you will perhaps appreciate a little more. It is at times like these, that I wished I believed in that eternal garden. But if anything, your existence gives me the faith I need. Surely, the gentle hand will pass over your eyes, and take you to a better place of no suffering. You are not lost. Of that, I am sure. 

Just as the giant oak falls in the wood, so your place is emptied in my life. But still, after the storm, there will stream in sunlight through the canopy, and things will grow. I will grow. 

Life and Death

Oh, Mother!
Life and death are bestowed in the same instance.
Just as the child breathes his first breath,
so does he breathe his last.
The first sickness eats away
until we are dust.
The young lover's words die upon his lips
just as they are uttered,
and the lilly upon his dear love's brow
withers as it blooms.

All our joys, our fears, ambitions, sympathies,
all men's feverish ardour brings,
what are they to us,
when we are taken cold into sleep?

So rises the sun with beams of gold, and across the sea,
golden beams fade and the same sun sets.
And yearly do the bluejays sing
and yearly do they, frozen, fall.

All that separates the vital child
with blushing cheeks full bloom,
from the wrinkled, white haired,
wind whittled crone...

The clocks, the chimes, the ticks and tocks
They echo through all the halls
Cheerful cuckoos cluck and mark
One more step towards the dark

A candle burning, a pin of light, we are
This flame will not last the night.
Yet still we cling to man's invention
Swept up as we are in time's flooding tide.